Schooled

Knock down, drag out quarrels are common in our home. We are raising three strong, active, mischievous boys who also happen to be extremely sensitive. Big emotions run rampant, which means little boy altercations are often high drama on every front you could possibly imagine. There's hitting, punching, kicking... There's yelling, screaming, crying, sobbing, sulking... We are blessed and grateful for these boys who are living so confidently with both their physical and emotional powers simultaneously. It also makes for some interesting discussions and revelations.

Altercation of the Day Synopsis:

S thought J was "playing on a joke on him". So he got angry and set out to physically hurt J. C intervened and ended up hurting S who cried like his arm was ripped from his body. After five-ish minutes of quiet-time-in-separate-chairs (mom's special recipe time-out-for-three-kids-when-you-don't-know-yet-who-did-what-to-whom) they were calm enough to each take a moment to have their say. In the end it was clear that J had not set out to play a trick on S. S merely thought this was the case. C (being the big brother who likes to dispense justice based on his own notions of right and wrong) protected J from what he deemed to be S's erroneously placed retaliation.

Mom set out to have a discussion with C along these lines:

"Sometimes you have to let disagreements that don't involve you (even ones bordering on physical altercations) play out on their own and without getting involved."

Instead, mom got a lesson from C.

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C: But S was going to hurt him (J).
Mom: Perhaps. But in the end, instead of J being hurt by S, S was hurt by you. And now you're the one getting the heat for hurting someone and S (who had intention to harm) is off the hook.
C: (long, silent pause) But mom, I really like J. He's so nice to me. He always does stuff for me. I guess I would rather be in trouble for hurting S than let S hurt J.
Mom: (tears, heart nearly bursting from pride) Okay. Fair enough. I love you buddy.

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J and C then spent some time hugging. S spent some time sulking because, well, frankly, with three boys with big emotions there is almost always someone sulking. Mom reflected on the noble actions of her fristborn. And that is how mom got schooled.

A Post About Boy Bits

J (with both hands down the front of his pants): Dad, I have two freckles! I mean no, I mean, what are these things called again?

Reader, if you are unclear still to what J was referring here are two hints:

S calls them his Special Eggs and J got one thing right - they end with a "cle".

To Health!

Seven days after the first child stayed home from school and I think we are on our way back to health in our house. S went to the doctor Friday evening at 7:00 pm, approximately 45 minutes after his first complaint of ear pain (yes I was on the phone upon hearing that complaint like flies on poop). He came home with antibiotics for an ear infection and Albuterol and Prednisolone for Croup. I took J in today (Monday) because he's been running a fever every single night since last Wednesday. Diagnosis: ear infection. Treatment: antibiotics. C is on the mend; coughing like crazy, but otherwise well.

Phew.

The last two days have been the most challenging of this bout of illness. There's nothing like three boys, ages five and under, recovering from days upon days of sickness-induced lethargy who have rediscovered their vigor in an unkempt sickhouse in the dead of winter. There's also nothing like being their mom who got used to their lethargy and sort of forgot about their usual zest... These boys are not easing back into their antics and general bouncing-off-the-walls shenanigans - their play is full force. And, of course, their crashes are hard and dramatic: whining, crying, fighting... They're sick of being sick, well enough for occasional rowdiness but not quite well enough to return to school - or are they?

For the past week I have gladly ignored all regular household jobs that weren't absolutely urgent (i.e. the mortgage payment) so that I could curl up under mounds of blankets with my "babies" while they are still young enough to desperately need me. Now that we are in this transition phase (a/k/a well enough to get into trouble) we are cuddling less and I'm noticing more everything that was neglected for the past week. The playroom floor is covered in blankets, pillows, pajamas and oh-so-many crumbs (because who makes their sick kids sit at the table to eat?). The laundry I had just caught up on that I "forgot" to do over the holidays (ten loads) is piling up again and the powder room smells like a urinal because apparently sick, little boys have even worse aim than healthy ones. The bedding needs changing, the pantry needs stocking, the cat needs brushing my belly fat needs crunching...

Tomorrow I say farewell to this illness as I gently nudge my boys back out into the world. I'll be washing things, tidying things, getting ducks in a row and putting one foot in front of the other once again. I'll miss hunkering down in pajamas under mounds of blankets but it's good to be out of the woods.

The Black Permanent Magic Marker Gasp!

I was lecturing one three-and-half-year-old about the necessity of leaving the Christmas wreath hanging on the door (where it belongs) when I noticed streaks of black marker on the other three-and-a-half-year-old's face. Purely out of reflex I scanned the rest of his body. Only when my eyes landed on the cap in his hand did my brain catch up to what was seeing. Oh no.

Fifteen minutes earlier I had dared to let him color with a permanent black magic marker at the table. I told him he was not to leave the table with that marker. He didn't listen. So there I was following the trail of my parental failures; the tell-tale marks on his face, the cap in the hand, the inky culprit on the third step from the top, scribbles on the hallway wall... Oh, I suck suck suck at this! How could I let this happen?! How dare I try to clean the kitchen?! How dare I forget that he had that marker?! How dare I let him use it in the first place?! How dare I trust them...

"BOYS!!!!!!!!"

"1, 2, 3 eyes on me!"

"I want to know which of you participated in this!" (pointing at the offensive, black swirls on the wall).

At the bottom of things five minutes later the child with black streaks on his face tells me "I'm weally, weally, weally sowy".

"But honey, you KNOW this is wrong because we talked about this when you did it with the red crayon!" (oh yes, this was not the first time - did I mention I suck suck suck at this?)

"Mom, I'm weally weally weally sowy but that's why I wanted Halloween decorations on the door."

"You colored on the door?!?" (running up the stairs thinking I probably shouldn't even look).

And approximately twenty-five minutes after I allowed him to color with permanent black magic marker on paper at the table, I stumbled into his room. Closing the door behind me, knowing full well what I might see on the other side, I couldn't stop the gasp that escaped my body.

Time out for him. Time out for me. New coloring rules and policies. Television on. Wine uncorked. I love my boys, I love my boys, I love my boys... Give me strength, give me patience, give me grace...

Fast

(A Loose Interpretation of a Serious Conversation Between Two Three Year Olds and One Five Year Old Regarding the Relative Speed of Mostly Living Things)

1. Establishing Speed

I’m super fast!
Are you faster than a car?
No, I’m faster than a kid!
Well, I’m faster than lighting!
We’re fast!

2. Onto Hoppers, Swimmers and Mammals

Kangaroos and rabbits and frogs hop.
And kangaroos win.
Yeah, kangaroos swim!
No, kangaroos are mammals; they don’t swim.
Yeah, they’re mammals!
You don’t even know what a mammal is.

(Thoughtful silence)

I said kangaroos win not swim.

3. Swimming Begets Speed; Long Necks Do Not

Stingrays are fast but not giraffes.
Giraffes are really really tall and they walk.
But turtles are fast; they swim.

4. Five Year Old Voice of Wisdom and Reason

Guys, lets say gazelles are the fastest.
I-mean-zebras-I-mean-cheetahs!

(Enter diplomacy)

But we can just pretend they’re all fast.

5. Voice of a Three Year Old Aspiring Superhero

Spiderman is fast.

(Pause)

(Seeking five year old approval)

Spiders can win.

(Five-year-old-“I-know- better”-patient-silence)

6. The Other Three Year Old’s Final Word on the Subject

Yeah.

(Quiet contentment from the back two rows of the minivan)

A House Full of Boys

Part 4

What I’ve Learned About Boys (So Far)

Boys like to touch, handle and manipulate things. They pick them up, take them apart, and turn them upside down and inside out. Discovering a new thing with buttons or mechanical parts is often a cause for celebration. When the twins were around a year old they became fascinated with the thermostat on the living room wall. No matter what we did to keep them from reaching it they managed to find their way back, climbing whatever they needed to in order to push those buttons. They once changed the setting to Celsius by pushing the unknown, but precise sequence and combination of buttons. (We lived with that setting for months until my husband accidentally reset it to Fahrenheit one day by alternately pushing random buttons and swearing under his breath). Another of their favorite activities involved plucking the keys off the computer keyboard. I have a friend whose three-year-old boy loves to play with the coffee grinder. In a boy’s world of play nothing is off limits; coffee grinder, computer, thermostat, toilet, toilet paper, microwave, laundry hamper, dirty clothes in the laundry hamper, clean clothes in drawers, clean clothes in laundry baskets, laundry baskets, electrical outlets, cords and plugs, refrigerator doors (for opening, closing, emptying and climbing), any and all furniture, pet food, bird food, bird feeder, grilling charcoal (new and used), holes in the ground, tools for digging holes in the ground, anything with any kind of button, their own streams of urine, kitchen utensils that mom thought were out of reach… Sometimes this kind of play can look and even feel destructive or disrespectful to the responsible adult. However, I’m certain the intention is anything but one of destruction and disrespect. There is a purpose in this play to sate curiosity and the drive to explore and discover. It helps me to think of it as deconstruction rather than destruction. When my own adult desires for order, neatness and containment begin to surface I look at the deconstruction all around me and feel gratitude for the spirit and joy that created them.

So, boys are messy. They play messy. They throw things, make huge piles of things, and knock them down or jump on or hide in them. They wrestle, run into things and smash things into each other. They eat messy. They squish, mash and pick apart their food. They put food in their cups and the contents of their cups on their plates. Their arts and crafts are messy. Paint, markers, glue and stickers are for paper as well as any exposed skin or object nearby. It’s not that they are messy people, per se. This messiness results from their tendency toward a very physical and kinesthetic approach to interacting with the world around them. Watch a young boy try to sit at the table for a meal for fifteen minutes. They start on their bottom, then they are up on their knees, then they are standing on the their chair, then sitting on their bottom but backwards, then standing next to their chair, then half sitting half standing… I imagine it’s pretty difficult to avoid making a mess when eating a meal in that manner!

Boys are daring. They generally don’t look before they leap. One of my cousin’s three boys is recovering from injuries acquired during an incident in which he thought he could fly. The other day I watched one of the boys at my five-year-old’s preschool clear four steps in an intentional flying leap to the concrete floor below. He proudly landed on his feet and promptly climbed back up for an attempt in which he clearly intended to surpass his previous accomplishment (there was an intervention before that attempt got off the ground). Though we have avoided any serious injuries in our house thus far, I’ve witnessed this daring spirit in my own boys’ play. They often approach their activities and projects with little thought, let alone concern, of the potential for negative outcomes or consequences. They just joyfully forge ahead and wait to see what happens. Sometimes they get hurt; sometimes mom gets mad. Other times nothing significant or special happens so they do it again; this time testing the limits and pushing a little further.

Boys are hunters. They seem hard wired to focus on a specific task and to do so with intensity and great dedication until it is complete. Last summer my boys played a game that involved walking back and forth between sandbox and kiddie pool and filling each with the contents of the other using a variety of tools. They usually did this for about twenty to thirty minutes and without speaking a single word to each other. They would travel the twenty yards between the two destinations, back and forth, passing each in total silence and with an energy conveying that they were all completely aware of and tuned into the goal. And even though I couldn’t tell you what they accomplished (because nothing was visibly apparent to me when the activity ended other than two huge piles of wet sand), at some point the work was done. I don’t know how they knew it, but they did, and they just stopped and moved on to the next thing as silently and knowingly as they had just been playing. And what they moved onto next wasn’t always silent. No! Hunter-type play can have a very quiet quality. On the other hand, some of their play is incredibly loud! Another of my boys’ favorite activities involves throwing lots and lots of toys and other things down the stairs or behind the couch or down the laundry chute at my parents’ house. This is usually, for a reason not known to me, a very loud job.

Part 5

Boy Energy & the Male Brain

Boys are not all of these things all of the time. Neither are girls not these things, or the complete opposite all the time. For example, each of my sons can be less messy and rather neat; less daring and more cautious. It’s important to me to embrace and support each of my children as individuals with entirely unique perspectives, journeys and “ways of being” in the world. To be sure, generalizations can threaten our ability to see people as individuals, and even influence a person’s expression of their genuine “self” outside of often resulting stereotypes. The intention is to convey that my experiences have shown a certain current of underlying tendencies to be so strong and so hard wired in my boys that they are hard to ignore. As a parent committed to understanding my children as individuals I was in danger of ignoring what they had in common with each other and boys everywhere. There is much knowledge to be gained by also seeing them as part of a group with specific predispositions, and it was an eye opening and revealing day when I acknowledged this truth.

Part 6

Comin Soon...

A House Full of Boys

Part 1

Boys and Boogers

When I was four-years-old one of my best friends was a boy named Jerry whose family lived in the same apartment building as mine. Our families moved away from each other when we were five and he and his family came to visit us in our new home some time shortly after. They stayed overnight and Jerry slept in our room with my sister and me. I don’t remember him having a cold or allergies, but for some reason I swear he picked his nose and wiped it on our wall until he decided to go to sleep. In grade school I had two other unforgettable incidents with boys and their boogers. There was who Dustin blew his nose and, apparently amazed by what came out, just had to show it to me. To this day that booger has the dubious honor of having been the biggest and roundest I have ever seen. Then there was Eddie who simply picked his nose, showed it to me, popped it in his mouth and carried on with his work. I was shocked, disgusted and amazed all wrapped up in one little girl-who-would-never package.

A few days ago I found myself saying to one of my three-year-old twin boys “honey, if you have a booger please give it to mama instead of putting it on the wall”. Asking my son to give me his booger tops a list of similarly odd comments such as: “let’s take the grass, sand and worms back outside where they came from”, and my personal favorite, “guys, it’s dangerous to run up and down the stairs with bags on your heads”.

Part 2

The Boy Train

Life with three sons, ages 5, 3 and 3, is an adventure full of surprises for a girl like me. I grew up with one sister. Her first two of three girls were born before my first son, and I became quite close with them. When I found out I was pregnant with our first child it never crossed my mind that it could be a boy. It’s not that I preferred a girl over a boy, or that I even consciously thought about life with one gender over the other. Simply put, I was surrounded by girl energy; I’m a girl, my sister is a girl, my nieces are girls, so of course I would have a girl. Imagine my surprise when we found out we were having a boy! I stared in wonder (often and for long periods of time) at the sonogram picture that showed his boy parts. Curious and excited, I started connecting with his boy energy long before he was born.

Shortly after our firstborn’s first birthday I discovered I was pregnant again, this time with twins. Certainly the odds were that at least one of them would be a girl. Honestly, I really wasn’t sure how I felt about that prospect. Some sort of uber-practicality came over me and I decided, rightly or wrongly, that life with three children separated by a mere two years would be easier if they were all the same gender. We didn’t have any girl clothes or toys, and had already started raising one boy. We were on the Boy Train headed to Boy Town. It just seemed easier somehow to avoid adding another train, with another destination and a completely different set of tracks.

Part 3

Two More Boys, a Booger Wall and the Smell of Dirty Socks

The day we found out we were having two more boys my perinatologist (and mother of three grown boys) smiled knowingly and said “in ten years your house will smell like dirty socks”. My mom (who didn’t raise any boys herself, but was raised with three brothers and no sisters) said “oh, Shannon, you’re going to have a Booger Wall”. Her reference to the now infamous booger habits of my childhood friend was a loving quip-turned-eerily-accurate-prediction. Neither my perinatologist nor my mom intended for me to take what they said at face value. Their comments intended to convey the truly different experience on which I was about to embark. The smell of dirty socks and Booger Walls were symbolic windows into the world I was entering as a woman raising not one, not two, but a handful of boys.

Part 4

What I Know About Boys (So Far)

Coming Soon…